Modern Romance August 2019 Books 5-8. Trish Morey
that she got to keep the dog. As if something hinged on this very decision.
Without looking at Ciro, she said, ‘I’d like to keep her.’
The vet looked at Ciro, who must have nodded or something, because he said, ‘That’s good. Thank you.’ The vet was just turning to leave and then he said, ‘You should probably think of a name.’
Lara sneaked a look at Ciro, who was expressionless. But she could see his tight jaw.
‘We’ll let you know,’ he said.
The vet left and Lara said, ‘If you don’t want to keep her I’ll look after her and take her with me when I leave. You won’t even know she’s there.’
She. Her.
As if they were discussing a person.
Ciro wasn’t sure why, but he had an almost visceral urge not to take this puppy. A puppy smacked of domesticity. Longevity. Attachment.
‘It’s fine. You can keep her.’
Ciro told himself that Lara would soon tire of the dog and then he would arrange for it to go to a new home. A home with a family who would appreciate it.
But even as he thought that he felt some resistance inside him. He was losing it. Seeing how Lara had been with the dog had made him feel as if he was standing on shifting sands.
‘Thank you.’
‘Let’s go.’
Lara walked out ahead of Ciro, his jacket dwarfing her slender shoulders. She should have looked ridiculous. Her hair was all over the place and she was smeared in dubious-smelling substances. Not to mention the blood. Yet she seemed oblivious to it.
When they were in the back of the car Lara said, ‘Sorry—I know I stink.’
Ciro looked at her in the dim light. Even as dishevelled as she was, she was stunning. More so, if possible. As if this act of humanity had added some quality to her beauty.
‘I wouldn’t have had you down as a dog-lover.’
Her mouth curved into a small smile. ‘My parents got a rescue Labrador puppy when I was just a toddler. We called her Poppy, we were inseparable.’
‘What happened to her?’
The smile faded. ‘After my parents and brother died my uncle had her put down. She was old... She probably only had another year at the most.’
Ciro absorbed that nugget of information. He could hear the emotion she was trying to hide in her voice.
‘Have you thought of a name for this one?’
She turned to look at him and he could see the gratitude in her eyes. He really didn’t want it to affect him, but it did. He couldn’t imagine another woman looking so pleased about taking on a mongrel of dubious parentage.
‘Maybe Hero? I’ve always liked that name. After the Greek myth.’
The fact that Hero had been a virgin priestess wasn’t lost on Ciro, but he only said, ‘Fine. Whatever you want. She’s your dog.’
When they arrived back at the house Lara made a face and gestured to her clothes. ‘I should clean myself up.’
She handed Ciro his jacket. He took it, and there was something vulnerable about the way Lara looked. He had a memory flash of having her ripped out of his arms by the kidnappers and thrown from the van to the side of the road. She’d been dishevelled then too. And the look of terror on her face had matched the terror he’d felt but had been desperate not to show.
‘Of course,’ he said tersely. ‘Go to bed, Lara, it’s been a long night.’
Ciro went into the reception room and dropped his jacket on a chair, loosening his bow tie. Except he knew it wasn’t the fault of his tie that he felt constricted. It was something far more complicated.
He poured himself a whisky and downed the shot in one go, hoping to burn away the questions buzzing in his head. Along with the unwelcome memories.
He forced his mind away from the past and the image of Lara’s terror-stricken face to think of her as she was now—standing under a shower, naked. With rivulets of water streaming down over her curves, her nipples hard and pebbled. The soft curls between her legs would be wet, as wet as she always was when he touched her there—
Dio! He had a wife, willing and hot for him, one floor above his head, and he was down here, torturing himself, when he could be burying himself inside her and forgetting about everything except the release she offered.
Ciro slammed down the glass and went upstairs, taking two stairs at a time. When he got to Lara’s bedroom door he stopped, his sense of urgency suddenly diminishing when he thought of how vulnerable she’d looked. What she’d told him about her family dog. Her uncle had had her put down. Just after her family had been taken from her.
Ciro had had his hand lifted, as if to knock on her door, but he curled it into a fist now, and walked away.
IT SEEMED TO take an age for Lara to fall asleep. She could have sworn she heard Ciro outside her bedroom, and even as she’d longed for him to come in she’d known that if he did she wasn’t sure she’d be able to maintain the façade that she was as cool and impervious to their intimacy as he was.
So when he didn’t appear in her doorway she couldn’t help a tiny dart of relief.
She slept fitfully, and when she woke at some point in the night she wasn’t sure if she’d been asleep for hours, or had only just fallen asleep.
And then she heard it—the sound that must have woken her. A shout. A guttural shout drawn from the very depths of someone’s soul.
Ciro.
The tiny hairs stood up all over Lara’s body as he shouted again—something indeterminate. Half English, half Italian. She realised she was getting out of bed before she’d even decided to do so, and she went to the adjoining door to Ciro’s room.
And then he unleashed a cry that she did understand.
‘No—stop!’
Lara didn’t hesitate. She opened the door and flew into Ciro’s room, where he was thrashing in the bed. Naked. A sheet was tangled around his hips and legs, and his hands were balled into fists at his sides. His skin was sheened with sweat. His hair was damp.
Lara went into the bathroom and soaked a cloth with cold water. She brought it back and sat beside Ciro on the bed, pressing the damp cloth to his forehead. She desperately wanted to ease his pain without waking him, if she could help it. She knew he wouldn’t thank her for seeing him in such a vulnerable state.
But then one of his hands caught her wrist and suddenly she was looking down into wide open dark eyes. She held her breath. He was breathing as if he’d run a marathon.
‘Ciro...?’ Lara whispered. ‘You were dreaming...’
With a sudden move Ciro had Lara flat on her back and was looming over her, both her wrists caught in his hands. Now she was breathing as if she’d been running. She didn’t know if he was asleep or awake and he looked crazed. Yet she wasn’t scared. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her. Even like this.
Ciro was still reeling from the nightmare. So vivid he could still taste it on his tongue. Acrid. He wasn’t even sure where he was. All he could see were Lara’s huge blue eyes. Soft and full of the same emotion she’d had in them earlier when she’d held the dog. Pity... No, not pity. Compassion.
It impacted Ciro deep inside, and he felt a desperate need to transmute the effects of the nightmare into something much more tangible.